by Julie Clark
“I think you have to let Miles lead,” Jackie says. “And hopefully Liam can hang in there. Eventually, Miles will come around.” She tosses her used napkin on top of her plate and looks at me. “How about I invite the three of you over for dinner in a couple of weeks?”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
Behind us, the boys’ conversation heats up.
“Obi-Wan says it himself,” Nick argues. “ ‘Only Imperial Stormtroopers are so precise.’ ”
“Well, if that’s true, why is it that every time they’re shooting at someone, they miss?” Miles asks.
“Because then the movie would be over.”
“Well, they should at least hit something. Otherwise, what’s the point?” Miles says, making Jackie and me grin.
—
The following afternoon, Bruno and I are seated in Dr. Jorgensen’s office. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to sit in his seat, supervising the science department and overseeing publications and research projects. But I love being on the frontlines of research. There’s more risk, but more reward.
Bruno has been silent since we left our office. He’s dressed up for today’s meeting—khakis and a bright green button-down that’s pinching him in all the wrong places. As a clock in the corner ticks away the seconds, I turn to him. “Everything okay?”
He glances at the door and then at me. “You asked Jenna to visit Scott Sullivan every month. What were you thinking?”
“Just anecdotal stuff. Nothing on the books,” I explain, though I know he’s right to be worried.
“That’s the problem,” he hisses. “It’s not on the books. It’s also not in the IRB.”
The Institutional Review Board is required prior to any human research study, and IRB documents are inviolable. Even a slight deviation could revoke our funding and possibly ban us from future human research.
“I’m worried about Sophie.”
Bruno sighs. “She’s in a shitty situation, but we can’t risk everything for her.”
Just then, Dr. Jorgensen enters behind us, closing the door and circling around to sit behind his desk. “Good to see you finally.”
I take a deep breath, funneling my attention toward the task at hand. “Thanks for understanding about last time,” I say.
Dr. Jorgensen smiles. “Let’s get started. I read over the materials Bruno left, so I’m caught up on what you’ve done so far.” He flips though a few pages. “It’s very impressive. Now tell me what you need.”
“We need a bridge grant to tide us over until our funding from NIH kicks in next fall.”
Dr. Jorgensen nods. The National Institutes of Health is a slow-moving organization. Bridge grants are often given by universities when there’s a funding gap between phases of an ongoing project. “What’s next?”
I hand over our proposal and charts representing our two hundred remaining men. “Sixty-three percent of the men in our study have the inhibitor and qualify for the phase two trial, where we’ll administer synthetic oxytocin. Some will get the synthetic drug; others will get a placebo. Our protocol will remain the same for another two years—quarterly blood draws and anecdotal data.”
Dr. Jorgensen slips his glasses off and thumbs through our proposal. “Safety trials?”
“Already done five years ago by a team in Rochester studying a link between oxytocin and stress.” I slide another folder toward him. “Their trial failed, and the drug company is eager to find a use for the synthetic oxytocin they’re stuck with.”
Dr. Jorgensen leafs through the report, making a couple of notations, then looks at me. “And these men, how are you going to inform them of this next phase?”
“That’s the tricky part,” I say. “To those who qualify, we’ll send out a letter announcing the end of phase one and set up one-on-one meetings to offer the opportunity to participate in the phase two trials. We’ll outline the body’s use for oxytocin, focusing on the importance of the hormone in relaxation, trust, and psychological stability. We’ll end with a focus on relationships—specifically the paternal relationship. We’ll include their individual oxytocin levels and all the waivers needed for them to opt in for phase two. We’ll have the same compensation schedule—one hundred dollars for every blood draw—but because we’ll only be working with men who carry the gene, overall costs will be lower than in phase one.”
“How many do you think will sign up?” Dr. Jorgensen asks.
Bruno shifts in his seat. “We estimate about one hundred men,” he says.
Dr. Jorgensen nods. “Where are we on publication?”
I pull out a draft of an article I’ve been working on about the oxytocin inhibitor gene and our phase one findings and hand it to Dr. Jorgensen. “I’m hoping to get this published by next summer, in time for the phase two trials to begin.”
Dr. Jorgensen sets it aside. “All of this sounds terrific. I don’t have to tell you how pleased we are with how well this has gone and the attention Annesley could get from it. I’ll take your proposal to the board and get back to you soon.”
“Thank you,” Bruno and I both say. We stand, and Bruno gestures for me to lead the way out. He doesn’t speak until we’re alone in the elevator. “Helping Sophie isn’t going to fix what happened to you, Paige.” His voice is soft, absent his usual edge, which brings tears to my eyes.
Over the twenty-five years we’ve known each other, Bruno has witnessed several of my father’s returns and departures and has seen the toll it takes on me. He understands better than most what it’s cost me and why I need our study to succeed.
“I know,” I say, staring at the numbers above the doors, blinking our descent toward the lobby.
“Jenna could show up every day, and Scott will still be Scott. You can’t protect that little girl. And it’s not your place to. The best thing you can do for Sophie is to finish up this phase and get Scott into phase two. But that won’t happen if we’re brought up on IRB violations.”
The elevator doors open into the lobby, and a few students step aside to let us off before boarding. We push past them, and Bruno glances at me. “Oh God. You’re not going to cry, are you? You know I need a thirty-second warning if you’re going to cry—that’s also in the IRB.”
“Shut up.”
“Just fix this thing with Jenna,” he says, before tipping his sunglasses over his eyes and stepping into the bright sun.
ACB DONOR SCREENING PAPERWORK
* * *
DONOR RECRUITMENT
Congratulations on deciding to become a donor for American Cryogenic Bank! You should be aware that we conduct one of the most rigorous screening panels in the world, and fewer than 1 percent of applicants go on to become donors.
The following are the steps you will need to complete in order to be considered an ACB donor. Be aware that disqualification can happen at any time.
STEP 1: ONLINE APPLICATION
This will give ACB basic information from which to work. It will ask you for your age, height, weight, ethnicity, education level, and family medical history. It might be a good time to talk to your immediate family and personal doctors so you have all the information you need.
STEP 2: FIRST OFFICE VISIT
The first semen analysis and test freeze will be performed, as well as a formal collection of personal information.
STEP 3: SECOND OFFICE VISIT
This orientation comprises a preview of the donor profile, consent forms, and more than fifty pages of social and medical information for yourself and your family.
The second semen analysis will be performed.
STEP 4: PHYSICAL EXAM
One of ACB’s preapproved doctors will run a full medical panel.
STEP 5: ADDITIONAL TESTING
Tests are run for infectious diseases and STDs. Urinalysis, blood work, and the third semen analysis will also be done.
STEP 6: GENETIC EVALUATION AND MEETING WITH GENETIC COUNSELOR
We run a full panel of genetic tests on all
applicants.* You will review your results with an ACB genetic counselor.
STEP 7: FINAL REVIEW
All directors—medical, genetics, and donor liaison—must sign off on your application before you are approved.
ONCE QUALIFIED
Every donation will be subject to a semen analysis, and you will be required to update us on any change in health or sexual partners. Further, we require monthly STD tests and infectious disease testing every three months. Every six months we require you to return for a full physical exam and to have your application renewed by our director.
* * *
* Testing performed on all donor applicants includes chromosome analysis and carrier screening for conditions such as cystic fibrosis, sickle cell anemia, spinal muscular atrophy, and thalassemia. For a complete list of genetic screening panels, please refer to our website.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
I see them from a block away. A group of boys, gathered in a clump. As I pull up next to the playground, I see Miles in the middle with his fists clenched at his sides and his cheeks flushed with anger. The circle tightens around him, and he yells something at them, though his words are lost in the distance.
One of the boys laughs.
I slip into a parking space haphazardly, leaving the tail of my car sticking out into the street and hurry toward the playground entrance. Every inch of me is frantic to get between my child and those boys.
I’m practically running by the time I reach them. As I draw nearer, I can hear their words. “Poor Flower, crying because he doesn’t have a dad.”
“I’m not,” Miles says, his voice wobbling with unshed tears.
“He probably ran off when he saw how ugly you were.” One of the boys laughs but then catches sight of me and the smile falls off his face.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Miles turns, eyes brimming with tears, and says, “Nothing.”
The boys step back—there are four of them, including Ethan. “I met your parents the other night, Ethan. I’m sure they’d be interested to hear about this.”
“Mom,” Miles says. “Don’t.”
But the boys are already backpedaling, getting swallowed by the yard.
I turn toward Miles. “Let’s go.”
Miles hesitates a moment and then grabs his backpack, trailing behind me, silent.
We approach the picnic tables, where a new supervisor sits. This one is young—no more than a college student.
“Hi,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Are you new? Where’s the other supervisor?”
“Gloria?” the girl asks. “She’s sick. I’m filling in.”
“Four kids had my son cornered over there, taunting him.”
“Mom,” Miles pleads again.
The girl looks across the yard to where I’m pointing. “Which boys?”
“I don’t know. Ethan was one of them.”
She doesn’t seem surprised Ethan was involved. Maybe she’s more aware than I thought.
“This isn’t their first incident,” she says. “Do you want to file a report? That would go through the director, and she’d follow up with you, the other kids, and their parents.”
“Mom, please,” Miles’s voice is an urgent hiss behind me.
I pause. “Just keep an eye out,” I say. “Maybe you could speak to them today and let them know if it happens again we’ll be contacting the director and their parents.”
The girl nods as if that’s what she would do. “Sounds good.” She turns to Miles. “Are you okay, Miles?”
He nods but doesn’t look at her.
The girl waits a moment longer before saying, “It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure I’m watching.”
“Thanks,” he whispers, and I want to hug her.
As we leave, my eyes scan the yard for the boys, though the only one I’d recognize is Ethan. But they’ve disappeared somewhere to regroup and probably plan their next attack on my child.
When we get back to the car, I sit for a moment. The image of Miles, surrounded and upset, burns behind my eyes, and I blink hard to erase it. I turn so I’m facing him. “Are you okay?”
He stares out the window, already buckled in, ready to leave. “I’m fine.”
I don’t believe him for a minute, but I don’t know what to do, other than push on. I turn forward and start the car. “We can’t keep letting this happen,” I say, pulling away from the curb and joining the stream of cars heading toward the freeway.
Miles’s voice is small and accusing. “It wouldn’t be a problem if I had something to tell them about my dad. Anything, just to prove I have one.”
Miles exists. That should be proof enough that a man was involved at some point. But I know it’s not.
I turn up the air conditioner and glance over my shoulder, pretending to check traffic behind us. But what I’m really doing is getting a good look at Miles, measuring how much damage those boys have done.
What if I hadn’t left work early and things had gotten physical? I hate the thought of Miles throwing a punch, but maybe Liam is right. Maybe karate isn’t the worst idea.
—
After some much-needed food and a heated game of Scrabble, Miles seems more himself. As we stack the letter tiles back in the box, I say, “I’m going to sign you up for karate classes.”
Miles gives me a confused look. “What for?”
“I don’t think those boys would have gone any further than they did today, but you should know how to defend yourself if you have to.” His eyes widen, and I hurry to clarify. “I’m not saying fight them. I’m saying karate might give you the tools to prevent that.”
Miles folds the board and puts the lid on the box. “What kind of tools?” he asks. “Like a ninja star or nunchakus?” His eyes sparkle at the thought of using weapons he’s seen in Jackie Chan movies.
“No. Like how to diffuse a situation so that you don’t have to fight.”
“Oh,” he says, his enthusiasm fading.
Miles’s words from earlier tug at me. If I had something to tell them about my dad. I think about what Jackie said, that maybe he just needs something he can claim for himself. “Come with me,” I say, before I can change my mind. “I want to show you something.”
He follows me into my room and sits on my bed while I pull the ACB file from the closet. I dig around and hand him the baby picture. “This is your father.”
Miles hesitates, wiping his hand on his pants before taking it. “How did you get this?”
“It was part of the package the clinic gave me when I picked him.”
Miles stares at it for a minute, the clock in the kitchen ticking away the seconds. “Why haven’t you shown it to me before?”
I sit down on the bed next to him. “I should have.” I blink back tears, imagining my child alone at night, wondering who his father is and wishing he were anyone but himself. “Why did you wait so long to tell me how much you were hurting?”
He shrugs, not meeting my eyes. “You really want Liam to be my dad. I thought you’d be mad at me.”
“Honey, I want Liam to be a part of our lives. I would love it if you wanted that too. But if you don’t, that’s okay. I’d never be mad at you for something like that. Never.” I sweep his hair off his forehead. “Letting Liam in won’t take anything away from this.” I gesture toward the file.
He nods once, acknowledging what I’ve said, and asks, “What else is in there?”
I pull out the rest of the documents, explaining each one to him. The profile with the donor’s height, hair color and eye color, the staff impressions about what kind of a person he is, and his personal statement about why he chose to be a donor. Miles handles each one like an ancient artifact, delicate and precious.
When I reach the end, he asks, “Is there anything else?”
I pause. “There’s a website where donors can enter their information and their children can find them.”
Miles’s eyes light up.
“Can we look him up? Maybe he’s there, looking for me.”
“He’s not on there, honey. I’ve looked.”
His enthusiasm wilts, and he stares at the photo again. “So all we know is he’s tall, has brown hair and hazel eyes, and that he doesn’t want to know me.”
This is why I’ve never shown him the file. It’s like giving a starving man a cracker. Just enough to awaken the hunger, not nearly enough to satisfy it.
“This is the man who helped create you. But that’s not the same thing as a dad. A dad shows up every day. He cares about you and wants to make you happy and safe. This is just a contribution of chromosomes.”
Miles studies the picture with an expression I recognize. For a long time, I craved my father like a cold glass of water on a hot day. Until I learned he was nothing more than a mirage.
“You can always talk to me about the hard stuff, Miles. There’s nothing you could tell me that would push me away.”
“I know, Mom.”
“Someday, you’ll want to have secrets. And that’s fine. But promise me that if you’re hurting, you’ll talk to me. I might not be able to fix it, but we’re a team. We carry our problems together.”
Miles doesn’t answer but instead holds up the photo. “Can I keep this?”
“Sure.” It’s just a color printout on plain copy paper, and I’m ashamed I never thought to print out a better one, anticipating that my child might someday want it.
He starts to stand, but then crashes into me, wrapping his arms around my neck, and I savor the weight of him.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you more,” I whisper.
“Not possible,” he says, sliding off the bed and disappearing into his room.
Y CHROMOSOME
* * *
Since the beginning of time, male heirs have been prized above daughters. In some cultures daughters were even discarded or sold. Up until the twentieth century, males inherited everything—status, titles, land, and family history. If you look through a microscope, you can find that history living inside the Y chromosome.
